Pure Desperation, Pure Exhilaration
by Miroslav
Summary: For David, life has always been a series of chess matches. He is white, from the king to the final pawn, and everyone else is black. HodgesEcklie, HodgesGrissom


Title: Pure Desperation, Pure Exhilaration

Author: Miroslav

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: I could say something funny, but...can't think of anything, just know I'm a college student without a car, and therefore not the owner of CSI. All of the lyrics are from various songs by Avril Lavigne. The poem is "Barter" by Sara Teasdale.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, prostitution (sorta -- if you squint), creepy!Ecklie, man-crushes

Pairings: Conrad Ecklie/David Hodges, Gil Grissom/David Hodges

Summary: _For David, life is a series of mental games of chess, in which he is always white (from the king down to the pawn). The rest of the world is black, and with each game it is a different group who makes up the pieces._

Spoilers: "Recipe for Murder," "Paper or Plastic," "Compulsion," and "Grave Danger."

A/N: Uh...don't ask? And this took me almost two months to write, mostly because Grissom's impossible to write. pokes him with a stick

Word Count: 5,912

_**You can watch me,**_

_**Fall right on my face,**_

_**It's an uphill human race,**_

_**And I am falling down**_

Conrad Ecklie's voice is soft and smooth, and David pictures it like an oil spill spreading across the otherwise-pristine sea's surface as the man leans forward and asks, "How do I know there won't be a repeat of the…issues your superiors experienced at the LAPD if we accept you here at the Clark County Crime Lab, Mr. Hodges?"

David feels a sarcastic retort (something to the effect of, 'Why would I need to be insubordinate with such brilliant minds like _yours_ in charge') rise up from the pit of his stomach, and he bites down viciously on his tongue to keep it from escaping. Instead, he swallows, tasting copper, and says quietly, "Because I'm not an idiot. I've already been blacklisted from most crime labs across the country because of the incident at the LA crime lab -- honestly, I'm not sure why your lab even _granted_ me an interview. If I get a job here and then cause trouble, I'll be finished. No lab would accept me." And there would go his life. Not that he plans on keeping quiet when he knows his co-workers are being idiots -- it is simply that this time he would be certain to assuage the egos of those who control his fate.

Ecklie's gaze is pure pressure; it settles on David's face like a mask, and the air is hard to breathe, suddenly. He has tried to look his most professional -- conservative tie, ironed shirt and pants, reliable shoes, carefully combed hair -- but somewhere along the five-hour drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas he got a stain on his tie and so is now only in his shirt, pants, and shoes, and he suspects that his hair is slightly mussed. Resisting the urge to smooth down the strands, he swallows and lifts his gaze to meet the other man's.

Ecklie is peering intently at him, his expression pensive, and then he says in that soft, smooth voice, "You know, I almost believe you."

There is a look in his eyes that David recognizes all too well, and the technician resists the impulse to recoil. Remembering the Seven Deadly Sins (his mother had been ever vigilant with her weekly prayer meetings), he labels the gleam as lust.

David swallows, knowing what is coming, and closes his eyes for a moment, thinking of the few hundred dollars that he has left in his bank account, the letter that was sent to every single crime lab in the United States that reveals in detail the "incident" that had gotten him fired, his car that has just reached the 250,000 mile mark, the three other labs that essentially laughed in his face when he tried to apply for their trace technician slot…. He _has_ to get this job. That is the thought that steels him as he opens his eyes and says quietly, "What will it take to prove to you I'm sincere?"

He shouldn't be surprised (and isn't) when it takes David kneeling on the floor between the other man's legs and giving him a blow-job to prove his sincerity. When Ecklie grunts and comes into his mouth, it tastes of pure desperation, sharp and bitter and poignant, and for the next few weeks as he settles into his position at the Las Vegas crime lab, David shies away from any food that has even a hint of sourness.

_**No, I just don't understand why**_

_**You won't talk to me**_

_**It hurts that I'm so unwanted for nothing**_

_**Don't talk words against me**_

_**I wanted to know you**_

David meets the illustrious Gil Grissom his first official day on the job, and immediately makes a fool out of himself, babbling in a vain attempt to impress his shift supervisor. He cannot help but be anxious to make a good first impression. After all, this is one of the men who control his fate.

Instead, his attempt at dialogue seems to have the opposite effect, and he watches as the other man turns and walks away without even a good-bye; he wants to kick himself. For the rest of the week, the conversation (and his own stupidity) haunts him.

_"You're the new guy."_

_"Yeah. Uh, David Hodges. Transferred from LAPD. They said I had an attitude problem. Said that I thought I was entitled."_

Of course Grissom knows about the "incident." He has to. And yet there was nothing in the man's low, level voice to indicate what he _thinks _of the scandal. And he doesn't even mention their earlier encounter later when he comes up and extracts a pint of blood from David's arm. (David isn't quite sure he wants to know what his blood is going to be used for -- he certainly didn't ask.)

For David, life is a series of mental games of chess, in which he is always white (from the king down to the pawn). The rest of the world is black, and with each game it is a different group who makes up the pieces. He freely admits -- to himself, that is -- that he was thoroughly trounced in the last game he played. He got too focused on taking out the pawns and forgot to pay attention to the pieces like the queen and the knight. In this new game, the rest of the Clark County techs and CSIs are black. Ecklie is the unstoppable black queen, all powerful, with the ability to destroy David in a few short moves. Brass and Stokes are the knights, ready to defend the people of Las Vegas. Brown is a rook, strong and steady, so entrenched in Sin City that he would wither and die outside it. David has made a mental list, figuring out who is the pawn and who is the rook, weighing each person's importance in the schemes of things.

The thing is, David doesn't know whether the silver-haired man, with his intense blue eyes and once-in-a-blue-moon smiles and low, soothing voice, is a bishop (championing the innocent), or another rook (the true foundation of the crime lab). For all David knows, Grissom might even be the king, who pawns like Sanders and Sidle would die to protect. Gil Grissom is the enigma that dirties up the game, making it gray instead of black and white, and to survive Las Vegas, David has to figure out the thousand of idiosyncrasies (that a psychologist could take a lifetime studying) packaged in a riddle wrapped in an enigma that make up the man. Only then can he figure out whether Grissom is willing to let him be or is ready to topple his king at the earliest opportunity.

That's why he tries to learn as much as he can about the distinguished entomologist; it's because his job weighs in the balance. And so he learns about Grissom's various quirks from the rest of the lab techs (he still isn't sure whether he should be irritated or relieved that the other technicians find his constant sarcasm amusing and therefore talk to him and actually call him David). He learns that Grissom listens to Pink Floyd, that he doesn't wear cologne on the job, that he solves advanced crossword puzzles in his free time, that he preaches the Holy Trinity: victim, suspect and crime scene, and that he _can_ be provoked into violence -- David actually laughs out loud when he hears about Grissom knocking a coffee pot from Ecklie's hands (serves the bastard right).

Still, his investigation leads to nowhere, and as time goes by David wonders if he will ever be able to understand the intricacies that make up Gil Grissom. In the meantime, he plays a cautious game, toying with the pawns like Sanders and Sidle but sucking up to Grissom and Ecklie. Better safe than sorry. Even though playing the role of the sycophant gets under his skin, he prefers being a kiss-ass than a vagrant.

_**What's wrong with my tongue**_

_**These words keep slipping away**_

_**I stutter, I stumble**_

_**Like I've got nothing to say**_

A few months later, he storms into Grissom's office, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force that he is surprised that the glass doesn't shatter. David knows he is treading dangerous waters, knows he cannot control his razor-sharp tongue when he is this furious, but he cannot bring himself to care as he glares at Grissom, who is looking at him with a bland expression, and demands, "Why did you analyze the trace on those bullets? I'd already given you my results!"

Grissom raises his eyebrows, and David has to resist the urge to get in his face and snarl until the man shows some fucking emotion. After a moment, Grissom says, "I needed to make sure the results were accurate. A police officer's job was on the line."

He just stares for a moment, unable to believe the other man would so casually insult his integrity. When it finally sinks in, he clenches his jaw so tightly that he feels a muscle jump. Every word he spits out is through gritted teeth, harsh and furious. "When have my analysis results ever been anything _but _accurate, Grissom?"

Those blue eyes examine him for a moment, and Grissom doesn't answer, he just leans back in his chair and studies him like he's some fucking bug under a microscope.

The silence is too much -- it eats away at David's self-restraint like acid, and within a minute of absolute quiet, he snaps. He means to ask why the hell Grissom thinks he can't do his job, and if this is his way of telling David to turn in his resignation papers, but what comes out is, strangled-sounding, "What do you _want_ from me?"

Grissom just _looks_ at him for a long moment, and David cannot label the look as any of the Seven Deadly Sins but none of the Virtues either -- he simply cannot name the emotion lurking in that pale gaze. "What I want," Grissom says softly, "is to learn your true nature."

David laughs, bitter, at that. His true nature? What did that have to do with analysis results? "Ever the scientist, probing the unknown," he remarks resentfully. "Well, Grissom, my _true nature_ is that I'm a damn good trace technician and I don't appreciate it when someone questions my ability to do my job."

"Is it?" Grissom says in a mild tone, and David has to resist with every fiber of his being not to punch him in the face.

Instead, he takes in a sharp, angry breath and mutters, "_Yes_."

Grissom is still pinning him down with that intense blue stare of his, and he looks thoughtful. He leans forward now, as though David has said something extremely interesting, and David wonders if the other man fancies himself a psychiatrist in a former life. "Someone's nature is defined as the essential characteristics and qualities of a person. _Most _people would say something positive about their personality when asked about their true nature or state a belief they live by, like their religion, but _you_ chose to assert yours through your occupation."

David blinks, uncertain as to where Grissom is going with this. Then again, he hasn't found anyone who can follow Grissom's mental leaps, so he supposes he shouldn't be surprised that he doesn't understand. After a moment, he scowls. "Care to let me in on what your point is? I take pride in my work. I don't make mistakes, as you seem to think I do." Grissom just raises an eyebrow, and he furiously repeats, voice rising to a shout, "_I don't make mistakes_!"

"So another aspect of your true nature is that you're a perfectionist?"

His lips twist bitterly. After all, Grissom, like most people, probably sees perfectionism as a negative thing; David has always found striving for perfection something that keeps him balanced, helps him play the game. When he answers, his tone is guarded. "I suppose."

"They say fear lurks behind perfectionism," Grissom says, and in the silence there is an unspoken, _Are you afraid?_ that is perhaps only David's rampant paranoia whispering in his ear.

Despite the fact that he knew Grissom would be negative, David cannot help the slight flinch. Afraid? He isn't _frightened_ -- he's cautious, because one screw-up and you can end up with no job. Isn't that what had happened in Los Angeles? Being cautious isn't equivalent to being a coward, it's being _smart_. "Do they?" he retorts coldly, although it's not much of a retort.

The older man nods. "Yes, they do."

He can feel the muscle jump in his jaw again as he grits his teeth against the malevolent words that want to surge off his tongue and pound into Grissom, and so David stalks out of the room before he can say something that will get him transferred. It is a tactical retreat, he tries to tell himself, but knows that's a lie, that Grissom has gotten under his skin and seen at least one aspect of his character that wasn't supposed to be seen by _anyone_.

He thinks that it is perhaps only his embittered imagination that makes him see a small smile of satisfaction curve Grissom's lips as he turns on heel and storms from the office.

The idea of Grissom feeling victorious over their conversation haunts him for weeks, and David can only take small triumph in that he has learned _something _about Grissom. Human nature, what makes people tick or do the things they do, fascinates Grissom, and most importantly (and oddly) of all, he is fascinated by _David's _nature. Perhaps Grissom is fascinated by the true nature of all the lab technicians and CSIs; still, David cannot help but feel that he's finally discovered one idiosyncrasy of Grissom's -- there are nine hundred and ninety-nine more to figure out, but it's a start.

_**It's the first time I ever felt this lonely**_

_**I wish someone could cure this pain**_

He's been here almost two years when The Event occurs. He has settled into a routine, has best friends in Jacqui and Bobby, and has even become somewhat friends with Conrad Ecklie (they call each other by their first names, at the very least, and he cannot help but be relieved that now Conrad just wants information from him rather than blow-jobs).

The Event would be when Grissom tells him, "No, actually, it's the first time you've ever done anything to impress me," and David's heart stops beating.

He can barely manage a nonchalant, "Hm." Grissom's just complimented him, and David is taken aback by the fact that the praise coincides with a sudden lack of breath on his part. When his heart resumes beating, it is a loud, irregular cadence in his ears. "Anyway, um, I analyzed the bleach," he manages to get out, handing Grissom the results. He swallows, trying to take in a deep breath without being obvious about it (his brain needs oxygen and he needs his dignity, after all), and adds, "It contains a cedar additive. Thought you'd want to know."

Grissom takes the container, turns and heads out of the lab, and tosses out a casual, "Thanks, David," like he hasn't just floored the trace technician and sent Earth spinning in an opposite rotation.

"Sure, Gil." David is astonished when his voice doesn't shake or that the world doesn't end as the door shuts behind the shift supervisor. _"Thanks, David"_ seems to echo in the room, and as much as David fights it, he knows he's wearing a pleased smile. All right, make that a silly smile; he probably looks like a teenage girl, giddy over the fact that her high school crush just smiled at her--

His grin falters as something akin to realization strikes, and then vanishes completely to be replaced by an aggrieved look at his own stupidity.

"Shit," he mutters, and spends the rest of his shift in a foul mood that cowers every CSI who comes his way (all right, so he earns a kicked-puppy look from Greg, a death-glare and threat of castration from Sara, and a trademark puzzled look from Nick, but the rest of them _definitely_ cower before him). He tries -- and fails -- to ignore the voice that sounds suspiciously like Gil Grissom in his head that is saying in a self-satisfied tone, "Check."

_**I'm trying to remember why I was afraid**_

_**To be myself and let the covers fall away**_

_**I guess I never had someone like you**_

_**To help me, to help me fit in my skin**_

The next few weeks are spent immersed in an internal struggle that is shown only by David studying Grissom compulsively. He catalogues each facial expression he sees on the other man's face, each hand gesture Grissom uses, the countless jokes or anecdotes he utters. It gets so blatant that Archie asks him flat-out why he's been staring at Grissom so much. Luckily, David thinks quickly and distracts the A/V tech by saying he's just been thinking how Grissom's facial expressions reminds him of Teal'c (Archie's forgotten his question by the time his rant on SG-1 is over).

Still, eventually someone like Jacqui is going to figure out why he's obsessing, and then he will have to concede to the voice in his head that is still repeating "Check" and request for a transfer. He's thinking that maybe he'll try for Seattle or Santa Fe. In the meantime, though, David keeps studying Grissom and plays with pawns like Sara and Greg.

And then Nick is stolen out from under a cop's nose, and all hell breaks loose. When the deliveryman shows up with a package labeled as RE: STOKES, David feels something in his chest give and before he realizes it, he is struggling with the man and screaming for security at the top of his lungs.

When Grissom and the rest of the CSIs come out to watch the commotion, his heart is fluttering so wildly in his chest that it's hard to formulate sentences, and he almost wants to cry with relief when he finally gets across that the envelope is about Nick.

Then comes Grissom's, "Let me do this." David cannot help but sigh as he watches him go, knowing that Grissom is taking this more personally than anyone else and that if anything happens to Nick, he doesn't want to even _contemplate_ what Grissom will do.

It is only afterwards, sitting on one of the uncomfortable couches in the hospital waiting room (he'd had to see for himself that the CSIs were safe -- that Nick was safe -- that Grissom was safe, even after Greg had called him to tell him that Grissom had figured out a way to get Nick out of the coffin without killing everyone), that he watches Grissom speaking in a low, quiet voice to Nick's parents and breathes a silent sigh of relief that he won't ever have to find out what the fallout of Nick's death would have been.

Still, even with Nick alive and soon-to-be-well, Grissom seems to have aged ten years since David last saw him, the creases even more prominent around his eyes and mouth than usual. Fatigue fairly radiates from his frame. Before David knows what he is doing, he's stolen the thermos of Blue Hawaiian Greg brought along, poured a cup, and shoved it into Grissom's hands. (He looks back almost defiantly when Grissom gives him a long, puzzled look, and doesn't offer an explanation.)

Besides, before Grissom can say anything, Greg starts whining about David stealing his precious coffee, and David snaps something sarcastic back, and by the time David looks towards Grissom again, the other man is back to being immersed in conversation with Nick's parents, every now and then lifting the cup of coffee to his lips.

Gradually, though, the group starts to disperse. Most of them haven't slept for a day, after all, and the doctors have assured them that Nick will be fine (and then there's also the fact that the nurses are seemingly on the brink of manhandling everyone out of the waiting room). Finally, it's just David sitting on one of the uncomfortable couches (he'd deduced that the nurses couldn't really manhandle you if you were sitting), Grissom helping a nurse figure out where Nick's parents can stay for the rest of the week, and Nick's parents watching the conversation and occasionally shooting curious glances in David's direction.

And then there is just David and Grissom, as Nick's parents go off to whatever hotel Grissom's found for them. Grissom blinks, obviously startled at the fact that _David_ of all people is still there, and David swallows and mutters, "I figured you'd stay 'til the last, not remembering it was Greg who drove you here. Looks like I figured correctly." He pauses, steels himself for the inevitable cutting remark. "I can drive you home, if you want."

But no cutting remark comes, and instead Grissom is just looking at him thoughtfully. "If it wouldn't inconvenience you…."

"Not at all," David assures him, fighting to keep his voice neutral. Grissom doesn't need to know that his house is actually about thirty minutes out of David's way. Though, actually, Grissom might already know that, since he's the shift supervisor…. That would certainly explain the pensive look. David hopes Grissom doesn't care enough about the lab technicians to memorize where they live, because Grissom realizing David's actually being _nice_ would be mortifying. Or that he doesn't ponder too deeply how David knows where he lives. (Learning his address and driving by his house twice doesn't count as stalking…hopefully.)

David fishes out his keys before leading the way to his car, unable to keep from nervously jingling the keys all the way there because Grissom's studying him now like he's some fascinating, newly discovered arthropod. David can feel his gaze like pressure on the back of his neck, and he resists the urge to rub at the spot where Grissom's eyes are boring into him, opting instead to open the passenger door and mutter, "Excuse the mess."

The inside of his car isn't_ that_ messy -- just an empty Wendy's drink container in one of the cup-holders and a few old newspapers he's forgotten to recycle on the passenger seat that need to be moved to the backseat -- but if David had known his car was going to be graced with the presence of Gil Grissom today, he would have had it shampooed by professionals. Which is pathetic really, and maybe he should just concede to the "Check" that is still reverberating in his head, because this man-crush on Grissom is turning him into a sap.

He is almost regretful when he has to put his keys into the ignition, because now he has nothing to fiddle with. His fingers start tapping out a nervous beat on the steering wheel, even as Grissom buckles in. Why does the man have to keep, well, _glancing_ at him from the corner of his intense blue eyes? It's distracting and unnerving, and David finds himself almost squinting out the window to try and forget that Grissom is staring at him.

They spend most of the car ride in uncomfortable silence, until Grissom abruptly shatters the hush. "Do you like poetry?" he asks suddenly, so suddenly in fact that when David turns to stare, the trace technician narrowly avoids a fender-bender with the car in front of him, which was obeying the law and actually _stopping_ at a stop sign. Who actually does that?

David curses a blue streak -- he always curses more when he's nervous or angry, and right now he's a little bit of both -- and when he finally grits his teeth against more profanities that want to spill out, he realizes that Grissom is waiting for an answer. He eyes Grissom, trying to figure out if the man is joking or not (and apparently he's not because Grissom raises The Eyebrow and keeps waiting for a response). He answers cautiously, a vague echo of 'They say fear lies behind perfectionism' filling his head. "Depends on the poet, I suppose."

Grissom finally turns away then, and David feels himself relax just the slightest bit. Still, David almost wishes he could see the other man's expression as Grissom begins to recite some poem the trace technician's never heard before.

_"Life has loveliness to sell,_

_All beautiful and splendid things,_

_Blue waves whitened on a cliff,_

_Soaring fire that sways and sings,_

_And children's faces looking up_

_Holding wonder like a cup."_

Grissom stops, and David thinks that surely the poem can't possibly be _that_ short, and then the other man continues, his voice low and level and soothing, and David's fingers stop drumming against the steering wheel as he listens.

_"Life has loveliness to sell,_

_Music like a curve of gold,_

_Scent of pine trees in the rain,_

_Eyes that love you, arms that hold,_

_And for your spirit's still delight,_

_Holy thoughts that star the night. _

_Spend all you have for loveliness,_

_Buy it and never count the cost;_

_For one white singing hour of peace_

_Count many a year of strife well lost,_

_And for a breath of ecstasy_

_Give all you have been, or could be."_

Again, there is silence, but Grissom's tone seems final on that last line, and so David suspects that the poem is actually finished. He just sits there for a moment, the only sound being the wind whipping against the outsides of his car as he turns left and heads closer to Grissom's house.

After a long moment, he asks, "Who's it by?" and judging by the almost-disappointed look Grissom directs towards him that was the wrong response to hearing the poem. What, did Grissom expect him to gush and say, "How lovely"?

Nevertheless, the expression of half-disappointment fades, and Grissom says in his normal, neutral voice, "A poet named Sara Teasdale."

David has a feeling he's failed some unwritten test, and that thought is enough to get him drumming his fingers nervously against the steering wheel again. Maybe Grissom was trying to involve him in an intellectual discussion? Biting his lower lip, he ventures after a moment, "She sounds like an optimist and a romantic to me."

"Why is that?" Grissom's still using his neutral, I-do-not-deign-to-show-you-my-actual-thoughts look, but it's a better expression than the earlier one of almost disappointment, and this emboldens David to hazard his way onward.

"Well, she's obviously a romantic because of her 'eyes that love you, arms that hold' line, and she's an optimistic because she seems to seriously think that love and beauty can conquer all."

A half-smile graces Grissom's lips at that. "I take it you don't agree?"

David snorts. "'For one white singing hour of peace count many a year of strife well lost'? Are you telling me you _agree_ with that sentiment? I never pegged you for a hopeless romantic, Grissom."

The half-smile widens into one of Grissom's rare, honestly amused smiles, and David is so busy studying the way the smile lights up the man's blue eyes and eases the years off Grissom's face that he almost misses the other man's house.

He pulls into the driveway and puts his car into park, still drinking in the once-in-a-blue-moon smile that has curved Grissom's lips and feeling a quiet sort of elation that _he_, David Hodges, has gotten Grissom to smile.

The smile still softening the lines around his mouth, Grissom says quietly, "And I never pegged you for someone who would wrestle a deliveryman to preserve evidence, Hodges."

"Temporary insanity, I assure you," David says, and wonders why Grissom is still talking to him. After all, they're at Grissom's house, so he's no longer trapped in a car with only David to converse with. "Look, you should get some sleep, I--"

"Come in. I owe you some coffee."

David blinks and stares, and Grissom is still smiling, only now he's looking like he knows all the secrets, and David has to fight back the warmth that rises to his face because even if this man-crush is turning him into a sap, he's not going to be a preteen girl and _blush_. "Technically, you owe Sanders some coffee. I just commandeered his thermos," he points out, striving for a neutral tone (he's not certain if he succeeds).

Grissom just smiles and gets out of the car, and David winces a little as "Check" starts to reverberate even louder inside his head. Obviously this is just a ploy to topple his king and once for all -- pretend to befriend Hodges, and then shatter his ego enough that he is forced to flee to Santa Fe to lick his wounds.

Still, David cannot think of a good excuse to leave -- "I'm tired" just won't cut it -- and so after a moment he turns off the ignition and gets out, following Grissom to his front door. The house is neat and orderly, like David expected, and he's still glancing around when Grissom clears his throat.

When David looks at him, Grissom's smile is gone, replaced by an intent look, as though the other man is trying to read something in his expression. David just offers him a slight smirk, and when he hears the nervous jingling of his keys, tucks them into his pocket and comments, "I hope you're better at making coffee than Sara."

"I am," Grissom assures him, and is still wearing that i _focused /i _look. His gaze is pure pressure; it settles on David's face like a mask, and the air is hard to breathe, suddenly, and David wishes Grissom would stop looking at him like that so he could breathe normally again. "Thank you for driving me home."

It takes a few deep breaths for David to get enough oxygen to speak, but then he swallows and lifts his gaze to meet the other man's and offers him a casual shrug. "It's not a big deal."

"I'm at least thirty minutes out of your way," Grissom observes, and David flinches before he can prevent the gesture, and drops his gaze to half-glower at the floor.

Damn. Why did Grissom have to be curious and have such a good memory to boot? Wishing he hadn't tucked his keys into his pockets, because he needs something to fiddle with, David shrugs again and tries for a flippant tone. "Like I said, it's no big deal. Figured you didn't want to pay for a cab."

When Grissom doesn't say anything, he frowns and looks up, and almost jumps out of his skin, because somehow in between Grissom's last words and now, the other man has thrown the idea of personal space out the window -- he is so close that all David would have to do is lean an inch forward and they'd be kissing, and that thought is enough to make it hard to breathe again.

He licks his lips, the silence an even heavier pressure than Grissom's piercing blue gaze, and opens his mouth to speak (he hasn't quite figured out _what_ he's going to say, of course, but he's sure he'll think of something).

Instead, Grissom reaches out and rests a hand on David's shoulder, and his throat dries out and any words he might have been about to say are lost. The hand is light and warm, and the contact makes David's knees contemplate buckling, something he firmly informs them they are not permitted to do (at least not while Grissom is in the room).

Grissom is still scrutinizing him, though, as though contemplating his next move based on David's reaction, and David suspects that the fact that he is unable to tear his gaze away from Grissom's mouth is something akin to "Checkmate." Now Grissom will figure out David's feelings, and inform him that he expects his resignation papers the next day and--

Well then. If he was going to be fired for his stupid infatuation, then he might as well go the extra mile and make his reason for being fired something major.

"What was that damn line? 'And for a breath of ecstasy give all you have been, or could be'?" he mutters half to himself, and before Grissom can even open his mouth to respond, David closes the mere inch separating their mouths and kisses him quickly, desperately, because this is going to be the only kiss he'll get before Grissom pushes him away and asks for his resignation.

Grissom's mouth is warm and lax against his, still tasting vaguely of Blue Hawaiian, and David memorizes the feel of his lips, and the way his stubble rubs against David's skin, and he closes his eyes, not wanting to see the look in those blue eyes shift to disapproval or disgust. He savors this moment during which Grissom is too shocked to push him away, and feels something akin to despair clench in his stomach when Grissom's hand finally tightens on his shoulder -- there it comes, the brush-off and the dismissal.

But instead Grissom's hand slides around to the back of his neck, keeping him there. That warm, lax mouth is suddenly no longer immobile but is actually _deepening_ the kiss, and now David's knees really do buckle from a healthy mixture of astonishment and arousal, and he has to clutch at Grissom's shoulders to keep himself steady.

When the kiss ends, it's Grissom who finally breaks it, and David keeps his eyes closed as he takes in a few, unsteady breaths, because there is still the off-chance that Grissom just kissed him as a malicious trick (or that he's slipped into the Twilight Zone and in the next second they're both going to get eaten by some creepy aliens from outer-space). But then Grissom's lips brush his again and the other man's free arm wraps around David's waist and pulls him closer.

David opens his eyes at that and manages a smirk that trembles at the corners as he looks into Grissom's steady blue gaze -- once again he cannot label the look as any of the Seven Deadly Sins or Virtues, but he supposes it doesn't really matter. And he supposes that Grissom has won this chess match, because David's king is well and truly toppled, but in this rare occasion, David isn't disappointed in losing.

"I take it I don't have to turn in my letter of resignation then?" he asks lightly, and when Grissom offers him another rare smile, he can't resist the temptation to kiss the other man again, and this kiss is ravenous, because David has been secretly fantasizing about this for months now.

Later, he kneels on the floor in the hallway in front of Grissom and with shaky, eager hands undoes his belt. When Grissom moans out a low, fervent 'David' and comes into his mouth, it tastes of pure exhilaration, startlingly distinct and gratifying and intense, and afterwards, whenever David works up a sweat under the lab's lights and tastes salt on his lips, he thinks of that first time and resists the urge to smile to himself.

_**I'm trying to remember why I was afraid**_

_**To be myself and let the covers fall away**_

_**I guess I never had someone like you**_


End file.
